A mere fifty to sixty yards away, Fang Qingyuan arrived in a flash with his Five-Colored Escape Light.
Gazing at the wave of blood on the ground, which was still writhing like viscous black soil, a look of contempt flashed in Fang Qingyuan's eyes. He felt a deep-seated loathing for Demon Cultivators like this—those who twisted their bodies into something inhuman, whose minds were controlled by desire, and who were utterly selfish, harming others for their own gain.
'Can't they just sit down and cultivate properly?'
'They insist on taking these shortcuts. Demon Cultivators like this, who prey on other Cultivators, damage the collective strength of humankind.'
Fang Qingyuan wasn't yet in a position to consider the grand relationship between Demon Cultivators and humanity. Right now, his feelings were simple: he despised this Blood Cultivator.
